Phoenix Still On Fire
by julytimes
Summary: Peter Parker doesn't understand why he is having dumb things like panic attacks and nightmares after the events on Titan. He figures that someone strong like Mister Stark would never deal with stuff like that. So he pushes on, not wanting to let anyone down, not realizing that he does not have to tackle this alone.
1. Bonfire

Peter Parker wasn't sure if he would rather be on the Earth or out in space.

On one hand, Earth was his home. He knew where most of the US states were, wasn't totally sure about the geography of Europe, only had a general idea about Asia, and if anyone asked him to identify a country in Africa, he would be totally lost. But at least he'd know what he could expect. He knew the chemical makeup of the air, the exact speed of gravity, and when and where the sun rose and set, and he understood the time zones. He knew that at any given time, Antarctica would be south, New York would be better than Boston, the subway would be three minutes late, and people wouldn't spontaneously turn into dust.

If he had been given some form of heads up that he, Peter Parker, was most certainly going to disintegrate, he would have rather done so at home, or outside a bodega in Queens, or at a park in Europe, or on a street in Africa, or really anywhere on planet Earth. Instead, he had died an alien death on an alien planet and now some part of him felt stuck there and utterly disconnected from his pale blue home. And although he knew it happened on Earth too, he wasn't here to see it. Although he knew that people on Earth —half of them, in fact— had experienced it, _he_ was the one who woke up light years away from anywhere familiar, choking on ash and tears and terror.

By the time he finally returned home, life had been resurrected and restored, just the same as he had left it. He could turn on the television to see talking heads, he could drive down the highway and keep driving and driving and know that there would always be another exit, another turn if he wanted. Or if he wanted, he could stay along the constant yellow streak of paint and drive on forever.

On the other hand, he wondered if he would rather deal with _whatever you would call what he was dealing with right now_ back on Titan. To keep it all there. Because on Earth, where most things are normal and familiar, things that were once normal and familiar became ardent and attacking and alien. It wasn't the actual things, per se. Rather, it was the sensations that flooded his already-heightened senses, like how feet sinking into the sand on the beach jarred him back to when he faded away, feet first. Or like the smell of fire, which makes ash.

Which was why Peter Parker ended up leaning against a tree, facing away from a massive, smoky bonfire that celebrated the end of the school year. He stood facing the darkness of the surrounding area, wanting to walk away and walk on his own while simultaneously not wanting to be alone. He was right on the edge where no one noticed, but where he was close enough to notice the others. He listened to the sounds of laughter and chatter and bottles clinking and tried to focus on people _being alive and not dying and not dying and not dying_ as he stared at the ground, kicking his right shoe against his left.

"Not your thing either?"

Peter glanced up at a girl standing near him in the dark at the edge. He vaguely knew her from school but had never learned her name.

"Probably won't be our thing for a while," she mused.

"Hunh?" Peter feigned confusion, but he was pretty sure he knew what she meant. He looked up to take her life in. Looked at her eyes move and her body shift with breath. Ironically, he hated that she had analyzed him, that she could just tell from his general demeanor that he was one of the ones who...

"Bonfires and smoke," she drew out the point. "...and ash."

"Hunh." Peter grimaced and turned his head down. And although this affirmed her intuition, he was not now, not ever, going to be in the mood to have this discussion.

"Sucks," the girl chuckled humorlessly, "for us, I mean. 'Cause the whole bonfire thing was a bit of a summer rite of passage. Like lighting one up on the beach. Not exactly going to be doing that anymore, am I?"

Peter met her with silence, absolutely unwilling to host some nostalgic what-he-had-before kind of conversation, though it was a mental dialogue he had with himself constantly.

"I used to be excited for this season," she continued. "Feels like a movie, like some Stand By Me bonding typa shit."

"Good film."

"Better song."

"Debatable," Peter shot back. Then he buried his face in his sweatshirt collar and groaned, both because it actually was a better movie and because the wind had shifted and smoke from the fire now drove towards them.

When he looked up again, the girl was standing straighter, suddenly looking stoned. His eyes followed her as she walked back to the campfire and motioned to a friend, who handed over a water bottle that wasn't filled with water. The girl stood chokingly closing to the smoky fire. She took one swig and then another. Peter shivered all over, turned from her and the fire, and walked away.

* * *

Peter Parker wasn't sure if his spidey sense told him that a panic attack was coming, or if his spidey sense caused the panic attack in the first place.

The thing about having a panic attack when you're Spider-Man is that all senses are dialed up to eleven. So when his heart started to pump harder and harder for what felt like the eighteenth time this week, Peter looked around and over his shoulder, then over his shoulder again, trying to convince himself that his heart was just thumping because it wanted to, not because there was a threat.

 _But what if I'm wrong and I'm trying to tell me something, like on Titan? Like how I just knew, I just knew, even before it happened._

 _No, no, Peter, Peter calm down. Get your heart to slow the fuck down._

 _But what if I'm just telling myself that because I'm naive?_

 _Or, what if I'm telling myself that because panicking is counterproductive 'cause it makes my heart beat even more, anyway?_

Despite all attempts to calm his heartbeat, blood pulsed behind his ears faster and louder. Peter reached out to the nearest solid thing, the edge of a building, anything, to help him catch his breath. With the other hand, he grabbed at his chest where it visibly moved up and down under two layers of clothing _proof of life I'm alive right now I'm good_. But his hands started to tremble and he couldn't catch his breath and his heart pounded even faster, even harder. Peter closed his eyes tight and tried to focus on taking a deep breath but he couldn't; his gasps were sharp and shallow and restricted.

 _There's something wrong here._

Then he started coughing. Nothing came out but he couldn't take a breath because something was blocking his airway.

 _There's something in your lungs._

The trembling traveled down into his arms and legs and left him unsteady on his feet. He leaned more heavily on the wall but when he opened his eyes, his vision was tinted in black.

 _See! You're turning to ash, you're fading to dust._

Peter was disoriented and fell back, hitting his head on whatever was around him. He couldn't see clearly and that scared him even more so he screwed his eyes shut, but that didn't help either because behind his eyes he saw stars and stars like a kaleidosco _pe that crumples and fades away on the edge and oh God, oh God. God, it's happening you're dying, this is what death feels like, and you're going to die alone and blind and in so much fucking pain you're going to die alone with your body shredding and throat burning on ash and dust and—_

"Kid?!"

 _Tony._

Peter let the world go black.


	2. Funhouse

Peter Parker wasn't sure if he would rather be asleep or awake. He feels like he is dying either way.

Before Titan, he always wished that he could remember his dreams. Sure, he could recall three or four really cool, vivid ones. Those were the kinds of dreams that he would try to fall back asleep to finish but his thoughts raced too much for him to do so. He'd meander to the kitchen to see Aunt May, and he'd try not to act so childishly excited while recounting the dream to her. She would try to contain herself for his sake, but she never could for too long before she just squeezed him tight because he was _so dang precious._

Those were the kinds of dreams that he would want to write down, but couldn't actually force himself to pick up a pencil and paper that early in the morning. So he'd tell himself he would remember —if the dream was shocking or vivid enough, he did. Once, he woke up in the middle of the night from an incredible dream where he could actually control his actions. Groggily, he reached for his phone and dictated as much detail as he could remember about events that never happened. The resulting voice memo was over forty minutes long. Now, Peter has more vivid dreams than he wants to have, and he's never able control the outcome of his death. Nothing new there.

As much as Peter tells himself that his body is _right here, right here and whole and solid_ , his mind is still there. It has happened twice that Peter legitimately could not discern if he was asleep or awake because he felt actual, physical pain. As it turns out, he was asleep both times. Living through dying once was hard enough; Peter sometimes found himself being fearful of going to sleep at night. And sometimes, some weeks more often than not, a nightmarish sleep bled into waking life.

But in a comparison, being awake sometimes felt like a bit of a horrific fun-house to Peter. He could never tell what lurked around corners that would unwittingly take control of his body and mind; he felt almost possessed during panic attacks, not having even a semblance of control. As he walked around the house of mirrors, he came to realize that no matter where he looked, all he saw was distorted versions of his original self.

So Peter made the decision to druggily clamor his way out of darkness. _He_ was here; _he_ had called him "kid" and God, how Peter needed him right now, though he could never convince himself to say it.

"Misserark… misserstark."

He could make out voices that seemed quite far away.

"What's he saying?"

"I haven't the slightest."

"Should we slap him?"

"Misser?—" Peter cracked open his eyes to two men leaning in uncomfortably close to his face. "—Ah! Mr. Stark!"

Both men paused, looked at each other, and began to guffaw. While the fatter of the two men kept on hooting, the second, more wiry man chortled, "If my last name wa' Stark, do ya _really_ think I be bothered wit' some drunk-ass kid on 'is side a town?"

"I'm —I'm not," Peter stammered, "I haven't been drinking much, I mean, of anything. I swear!"

The fatter man blew out a long breath and wiped his eyes like that laugh was the most exercise he had undertaken in a while. "We ain't cops. We're just standing over there 'avin a smoke."

"You damn near cracked your skull open an' we just making sure you're alright."

"Speaking of," the fatter man reached into his jacket pocket, "you want one to calm yourself?"

Peter retracted from the cigarette like it had teeth that were already snapping at him.

"Your loss," the wiry man shrugged, gesturing for the pack and a light. Peter's eyes darted to the offending object between the wiry man's teeth where it frothed at the mouth.

"Ya sure? One time offer. Really settles out the jitters on the nerves."

The wiry man stepped closer and looked into his eyes as if testing the size of his pupils. Peter looked him square in the face and opened his mouth in protest that he was _not_ on any kind of substance when the man said, "You're geeking out, kid."

Peter couldn't turn away quick enough; the cigarette smoke had come blasting into his face, an outright attack on his senses. His vision jumped.

 _There's something blocking my lungs, something in my chest, I taste ash, there's ash pooling in my throat. Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good. I don't know_ — _I don't know what's happening._

Peter turned away, leaned against a wall, and dry heaved.

"You pass out and nearly puke," the wiry man chuckled sarcastically, "sure you ain't been drinking."

The men got out up and started to walk away as Peter shut his eyes and held his stomach in.

"Kid thought I was Tony Stark."

"Yeah, and I'm Black Widow."

"You're more of a Hulk."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you more."

As their laughter died away, Peter felt it coming at the base of his throat. Shaky legs carried him off the main street and into the closest alley. There, on the back stoop of a failing corner store, Peter Parker felt utterly worthless and weak because he was throwing up for no reason other than that he smelled cigarette smoke.

"Come on, come on, you've got this. Come on, _breathe_ , please, please." In between stringy heaves of stomach acid, he begged. "You gotta breathe, come on, just breathe. It won't always be like this. Come on, just breathe, please calm down. Please. Come on, _please_."

When he was done, he leaned back, shivering, rubbing his arms and then his legs and then his arms again. He wiped his mouth, pulled his hoodie over sweat-drenched hair, and leaned against the wall. Peter closed his eyes, relishing in a normal heartbeat.

* * *

"Hey."

"Hey. You."

"Little asshole in the hoodie."

Peter started awake, looking up to see a man that was obviously the convenience store owner. The guy poked him with a broom, "Get up."

"Hey!" Peter scrambled up and looked at the guy, then the broom, then back to the guy accusingly.

The man shrugged, "You've been out here for awhile. I'm closing shop and don't want loiterers bringing your drugs and whatever you're around 'round here."

"No, sir, I don't do drugs — wait, wait, you're closing? Like, already? It's not even midnight. I mean that's late of course but it seems, to me, to be a bit early for a corner store…"

"New priorities, new hours. After everything, I mean. Er... I wanna get back to the family." The owner hesitated awkwardly, unsure how exactly to step around New York's impersonal boundaries. "Get home to yours… or something. Or whatever you want to do." He stood there for a moment, fiddling with the broom. "Just don't do it on my damn stoop." He hastily stepped inside and slammed the door, locking the empathetic encounter with a stranger outside.

* * *

Like most kids who want to avoid their guardians at night, Peter climbed in through the window. But like the very few guardians who know their children well, Aunt May was sitting on his bed when Peter arrived.

"Oh, uh, hey… Aunt May."

He leaned against the still-open window. She cocked an eyebrow and let Peter marinate in the accusing silence for a beat.

May asked, deadpan, "Should I call a mechanic?"

"Hunh?"

"A mechanic. For the front door. Since it seems to be broken."

"Oh! I just wanted to, ya know, test out the ol' webs. Make sure they're oiled up. Well, not oiled, obviously," Peter floundered. "But you know it wouldn't really be a mechanic, per se, it would be more of a handyman."

"What?"

"To fix the front door."

"The door isn't broken, Peter."

"I know."

"Then why didn't you use it?!" she exclaimed, exasperated.

Peter's face suddenly hardened. "Maybe because I didn't want to have this exact conversation. Maybe because I just wanted to go straight to bed without you reading me the riot act like you always do. That sound about right?"

May stared at him in hurt for what felt like an eternity before turning and walking out of the room. The moment she was out of sight, Peter's tough guy act dropped and he drew his hands to his face. He debated with himself for a brief moment before resigning. And with an "Ah, fuck," he followed her out of the room.

"Jeez, Aunt May, you know I didn't mean that," Peter admitted as he sank down onto the living room couch next to her. "I'm sorry, I just really wanted to go to bed. I'm really just really tired."

He leaned his head on her shoulder as May ran her hands through his hair. "I know, baby. I know you're tired."

They sat there for a few moments; Peter relished in the silent comfort and May searched for the right words. "I just know that tonight, you were out with your friends." Immediately, Peter picked up his head and shook out his hair. May rushed to assure, "—which is totally normal by the way. And I'm proud, I'm proud of you, Peter." She paused. Peter suppressed a groan when he realized that she was trying to place china words carefully. "It's just, I know that it was… at a bonfire… and I know…" Peter blankly stared past her. "I know that sometimes that stuff is… that stuff might…" She was at a loss for what to say and how to say it. She wasn't sure what he was looking at, or if he was looking at anything at all. She wasn't even sure if it was better to try and have this conversation, or if she should let him come to her. But what she feared most was both of them ignoring it, and of her child spiraling out of control without even knowing that his wings were on fire.

"It was fine, Aunt May." Peter didn't meet her eyes. "If it was anything other than fine, I would tell you. You know I would."

May didn't protest when Peter gave her a kiss on the cheek, rose, and went back to his room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

When he finally lowered himself into bed, pulled up the covers, and stopped moving, Peter deeply exhaled. He was so tired he could have slept for days.

 _Realistically, not days. But what does it matter? Time is relative. When you died, you were an insane amount of lightyears away. But you got back instantly when Tony Stark carried you through a wormhole that a wizard created on Titan._

Peter audibly groaned at his own intrusive thoughts. Then he gave a laugh at the fact that he groaned at a thought. Then he laughed again that he was laughing at a voice in his head; he figured he was going insane.

He flipped his covers off his chest, suddenly feeling a little too hot.

 _It's summertime, it's normal to sweat._

 _Ah, but this is a cold sweat._

He kicked his legs, effectively getting all the covers off the bed. But he found, unfortunately, that the vicious feedback loop had already begun.

Peter began to think about how he felt anxiety and a simultaneous inability to do something about it or even decide what to do in the first place. He flipped his pillow and flipped onto his stomach when he began to realize that he was feeling panic about the lack of control of his situation as a whole. This panicked him even more because there was nothing worse than having your body spiral _to dust_ out of control and not being able to do a damn thing about it. He turned over again and grabbed the pillow out from under his head and pulled it to his face, gripping-ungripping-gripping-ungripping it hard, trying to get some semblance of control over some form of feeling, as he couldn't do a thing about the gaping _wormhole_ holethat felt like it was collapsing in on itself at the base of his chest.

As he grew angrier and angrier with himself that he couldn't just stop himself from _falling into a trillion little pieces_ having a stupid fucking panic attack, he began to feel as if everything was closing in on him. He sat up and threw away the pillow and pulled his knees to his chest and pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead. Even though he was so claustrophobic and burning up with such incredible energy, he was utterly, utterly empty.

Peter Parker couldn't tell if he was feeling too much or nothing at all.

"Misserstark... Mister Stark"

 _You're weak. You're so fucking weak, you are so goddamn unbelievably weak. Don't burden him with this._

"Please…"

 _I can't do this alone._

Peter pushed the pillow away, arched his back, and jumped up to lean against the open window. He looked out and down, down the eight stories.

 _He won't want to deal with you._

A whimper bubbled in his throat when he realized he hadn't yet convinced himself to shoot a web when he jumped.

 _I need to see him._

"Fuck. Fuck _._ " He climbed onto the window sill shaking, burning up, and freezing cold. He resigned, " _Fuck_ , fine," and jumped into the night.


End file.
